


It's Like Rain

by Strawberry_Champagne



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6641407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Champagne/pseuds/Strawberry_Champagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's snowing the morning of your wedding, delicate flakes that fall in pirouetting spirals before collecting in the crevices of the window sill. You press your nose to the glass, spellbound like a child, vibrating with nervous excitement. Draw a heart in the fog your breath makes. It's time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Like Rain

**Author's Note:**

> A few lines of this popped into my head and they were in second person for whatever reason, so this appeared! This is pretty much unapologetic wedding fluff, because. These boys. They deserve it. Anyway, yay weddings!

It's snowing the morning of your wedding, delicate flakes that fall in pirouetting spirals before collecting in the crevices of the window sill. You press your nose to the glass, spellbound like a child, vibrating with nervous excitement. Draw a heart in the fog your breath makes. It's time.

There are no divisions between groomsmen. Everyone piles into your room, then his, breathless with laughter, bright and loud and cheerful as they've ever been.

You should see him, they say. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Keeps sitting, standing, sitting down again. They've had to fix his hair three times already.

Lardo settles your tie around your neck, loops it through and pulls it smooth. Press a kiss to her cheek that she leans into, eyes closed and beaming. You expect a chorus of chirps, but Shitty is sniffling and Chowder looks like he isn't far behind.

Time to lighten the mood. You have a pre-wedding playlist, because of course you do, and dancing is not optional. You shake your hips to Single Ladies – even Ransom strikes a pose. Beyonce croons about rings and what you should do with them.

“He _did_ ,” quips Chowder, grinning, braces-less. You touch the cool metal of the simple band on your finger, twist it around.

You will not admit to dancing to this song the night of your engagement, flipping your newly blinged-out hand back and forth to the music, the tungsten and silver catching moonlight and flashing like diamonds.

You've been asked if you would like to meet with your fiance before the wedding to have a private moment, take photographs. But Southern romantic traditions die hard, especially when you've been imagining your husband-to-be at the end of the aisle, getting your first look at each other, since you were very young. Since you had known it was going to be a husband.

Photographs will have to wait.

(You do have a photographer, a very good one, who unobtrusively follows every step of the way, from preparations to piling into the limos that will take you to the ceremony site. You made Jack promise not to show you the price. He can afford it, but really, the only photos that you care about are his.)

Snow melts in your hair as the whole entourage treks up the stairs at the front of the building. It seems too warm for it to stick for long. They say that rain on your wedding day is good luck, but what do they say about snow? Looking at the assembly of your friends and family, you think you're plenty lucky enough already.

The guests are waiting, restless, chattering quietly as the last few trickle in through the double doors. This isn't a church, not exactly, but the event center is beautiful and inspires a similar hushed reverence. Deep cherry wood and high ceilings, with stained glass windows that reflect colorful fractal light around the room.

In a small alcove just inside the main doors, your mother squeezes your hand.

“Are you ready, Dicky?” Her eyes shine. Your friends take their positions at the back of the room in pairs – Lardo and Shitty, Holster and Ransom, Chowder and Nursey. Dex hadn't been able to make it, and sent his regrets.

Music begins. It is orchestral, classical sounding, appropriately serious – some guests begin to chuckle as they recognize the instrumental remixes of classic rock and pop songs. You mouth the unspoken lyrics, sing softly to yourself.

The groomsmen walk out to “Here Comes the Sun” in an arrangement of piano and gently strummed acoustic guitar. You resist the urge to poke your head out – it will all be recorded, and this is not your moment.

But this one is. You don't walk out to a pop song because for once in your life, you don't need to be dancing. You pick a piece that a music student composed for the occasion – it's sweeping, romantic, and suitably dramatic for this moment.

You don't hear the music.

Arm-in-arm with your mother, you're five steps down the aisle when he turns to face you, hands clasped behind his back. You can't breathe. His custom-made suit fits like a dream, dark blue with accents of your respective team colors. A spray of red winter berries and flowers are pinned to his lapel, and despite the friendly chirping about it earlier, his hair is perfect.

You take in but don't see any of that. Just his face, overwhelmed but happy, a soft genuine smile that's just for you. You smile back, broad and sunny.

“Hi. Hello, Jack,” you say, soft, for his ears only.

“Bitty,” he replies. Shitty stands to his left, nudging him with an elbow.

“Don't drop the ring, Shits,” Jack monotones. His eyes have never left your face.

The minister – non-denominational, LGBT-friendly – begins the ceremony. It's supposed to be short, but you feel suspended in this moment, outside of time. Jack takes your hands. They might be trembling.

She speaks of your love, your story, your devotion to each other. The obstacles you faced and overcame together. That you wish to share each other's lives, to always be on each other's team.

Someone – Rans? Holster? - snickers at the sports metaphor, but is quickly silenced when ice blue eyes cut over.

Now the hard part. Mama Bittle in the front row clutches a wad of Kleenex – Coach is beside her, stoic and unreadable as ever. Your hands are definitely shaking now.

“When we first met, I thought you hated me,” you begin. You feel everyone's eyes on you, the unspoken skepticism that this is what you should start with, that this isn't romantic at all. They're wrong.

“Then I fell for you, and thought I could never have you.” Take a breath. “I was wrong, and I am so glad. Jack, you pushed me when I needed it, helped me to become a stronger person than I ever thought I could be. You've been called a hockey robot, but I know that isn't true – the real Jack Zimmermann is gentle, kind and thoughtful, passionate in all things, and loyal to a fault. Honey, you may not know who's singing on the radio half the time, but I still love you more than anything. And I always will.”

Your voice only cracks a little. No one notices. They might all be crying.

When Jack clears his throat and begins speaking, the tears start rolling almost immediately. He keeps looking down at the cuffs of his suit jacket, and eventually you notice that something is written there. He wrote his vows on his _wrists_ , and you love this big 'ol Canadian dork so much that you almost tackle him into a hug right then and there.

In his vows, he never says “Eric.” You aren't sure who that is anymore. It belongs to a time of hiding, of jock pranks and whispered rumors.

“Bits, you're...like sunlight,” he says, and you smile through your tears. His fingers twitch like he wants to wipe them away.

“You shine into the dark places and melt all the ice. Eh. Not _the_ Ice. My ice.” He smiles, crooked and wry, as all the hockey players chuckle. “I don't know if it was the pies or your persistence, but you got under my skin, Bitty. And...I didn't even realize it until it was almost too late. I didn't want to let you go. I still don't. I love you, Bits.”

A few loud sniffs punctuate the silence. Your mother has run out of Kleenex and has borrowed a handkerchief from one of Jack's “uncles” who is seated directly behind her. You wonder if she knows she's using the hanky of a legend.

The officiant asks for the rings. Shitty pretends to lose them until no one is sure that he _is_ pretending, but finally pulls it out of a hidden pocket with a cheeky grin. Lardo rolls her eyes and places Jack's ring in the palm of your hand. It's heavier than it looks.

_With this ring..._

You slide it on to Jack's finger, fingertips grazing his palm. The reality of this hits you just then, harder than before. You let out a shaky breath as he gently slips your ring past the knuckle. This is happening. No pinching required.

Take each other's hands again. Now repeat after me.

“I, Eric Richard Bittle, take Jack Laurent Zimmermann...”

“I, Jack Laurent Zimmermann, take Eric Rich – _Bitty_ ...” 

“...in sickness and health...”

“...in good times and bad...”

“...to love and comfort you...”

“...to cherish you as my husband from this day forward.”

Your ears are buzzing as you are pronounced, introduced to the world as husbands. Nothing exists but this boy. The universe is everywhere that you're touching, the soft lips that eagerly press against yours, and you're home in the circle of his arms. Somewhere outside this universe, you can hear hooting and rowdy chirping, and you can't seem to care that most of it isn't appropriate for MooMaw's ears.

He's yours. He's always been yours, but this makes you feel possessive, _possessed_ , in a way that you never have before.

You take a few pictures with the wedding party as the guests drink and socialize – the pictures are mostly ridiculous, not at all serious, and 100% Haus. Except for the one where Jack leads you down to a snowy field, the trees stark and skeletal in the slate gray sky. He wraps his arms around your shoulders from behind. It will be your favorite picture that he didn't take.

But it's cold, and inside they have pie.

You didn't make the pies – you suggested it exactly once, and Lardo shut it down just that quickly.

“Brah, fuck no! You will _not_ be scurrying around on your wedding day covered in flour.”

She had a point. So you hired the best bakery you could find in Providence, and are sure the pies are _fine_. You definitely do not scowl or pout when your guests go back for seconds of their coconut cream.

The reception is a blur. Shitty's best man speech veers into the profane, but still makes everyone from Samwell cry. He runs over and gives Jack a violent noogie and a smacking kiss on his forehead. He actually says “I love you, man.” More than once.

For the first dance, the floor is cleared out and Jack steps forward. You nod to the DJ, who queues up Queen Bey. Jack smiles. He knows this one.

Jack's hand settles at the small of your back, the other around your shoulders. Sway together, and hope that his suit isn't a rental – it may already be ruined from all the tears. This time he does brush them away, thumbs that sweep across your cheekbones as he cradles your face.

“Bitty,” he says. Dips in for a kiss to more hollering, the clinking of silverware on champagne flutes.

The reception goes long into the night. You dance your heart out, never straying far from Jack's side. You feel like you could float away, but his steady gaze grounds you. Dancing always makes you hungry, so you leave to round up a plate of hors d'oeuvres. (They are _perfect_ , thank God. You make a mental note to bake something special for the caterer.) As you turn to find Jack again, you notice he's on the other side of the room talking to your parents. You can just barely hear their voices above the crowd.

Your mother hugs Jack tight and whispers something in his ear. He laughs, bright and easy. Then Coach extends his hand. Jack just stares for a moment before clasping it.

“Welcome to the family, son,” Coach says, gruff and serious. You almost drop your plate as your eyes fill with tears.

Outside, the rising moon is full, the snowflakes falling thick and fast.


End file.
